Niko limped down the hallway, each step sending a dull jolt of pain up through his left leg. He gritted his teeth, casting a quick, irritated glance downward.
"Chalice must've done a lousy job healing me," he muttered under his breath. "Only gets rid of muscle fatigue? Not the bruises? Not the stab wounds? Not the limp? That dramatic godling…"
He hissed slightly as he shifted weight off the leg. Every joint in his body ached like rusted hinges—his neck, his back, even his fingers. It was like his bones had aged fifty years in a day. Which, given everything he'd been through, didn't feel that far off. Chalice might've saved his life, but apparently mercy had a very narrow definition.
The hallway was quiet, save for the distant murmur of tavern life downstairs. Morning sunlight filtered through a single narrow window, throwing long beams across the dusty floorboards. The scent of old wood and something faintly floral—maybe Iri's perfume?—hung in the air.
He stopped in front of her room and hesitated.
Niko took a breath, bracing himself. He was ready to get hit. Or yelled at. Or both.
Then he knocked. Three times, firm.
No answer.
His eyebrows pulled together slightly. Maybe she was ignoring him on purpose? Wouldn't be shocking. He knocked again, this time louder.
Still nothing.
He leaned in, ear near the door. Not a single creak of movement. Not the soft scuff of a footstep. Nothing. It was like the room was empty.
"She must've gone out," he muttered to himself. He exhaled deeply, dragging his hand down his face. "Or she's on the roof again."
For a moment, a flicker of guilt passed through him. She'd probably waited. Probably got worried. Then got mad. Then stopped being mad. And now? She was gone.
He rubbed the back of his neck, then turned and hobbled the rest of the way to his own room.
His door opened with a soft creak, and for a heartbeat, Niko just stood in the threshold. Staring.
The bed was still there.
Just a simple bed—wooden frame, slightly uneven legs, a thin mattress with a faded quilt folded neatly at the foot. The pillow looked lumpy, and the blanket was worn through in places.
But to Niko?
It looked like heaven dipped in cotton.
He didn't bother removing his boots. Didn't care that he was still caked in dirt and dried blood and ash. He just threw his bag into the corner, stumbled forward with a half-limping shuffle, and all but collapsed face-first onto the mattress.
"OH, SWEET MERCY—"
The words came out muffled into the pillow, and the noise he made was less human and more like some creature reuniting with its long-lost mate.
It wasn't even that comfortable. The bed was scratchy, the springs groaned, and the pillow had the consistency of mashed potatoes. But compared to sleeping on stone, tile, forest roots, or demon-infested cult floors?
This was luxury.
Niko groaned again as he melted into it, every nerve in his body slowly releasing tension. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears and the throbbing of a half-dozen bruises across his ribs, but it didn't matter anymore. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was somewhere safe. Warm. Familiar.
His eyes drooped shut without resistance. His fingers loosened their grip on the pillow. The city sounds beyond the window—birds, distant voices, the occasional cart—faded into a warm blur.
Niko's last semi-conscious thought drifted through the haze like a whisper:
I don't even remember what real home feels like… but this? This is close enough.
And then—
Nothing.
Sleep took him like a wave, crashing over his mind and pulling him down into the deep.
..
…
….
The morning sun barely crept past the half-drawn curtains of Juno's inn room, streaking dull gold across the stone walls and wooden floor. Dust floated gently in the slanted light. Juno stirred, face buried in a pillow, breath slow and deep. For a moment, it looked like he might fall back asleep.
Then a shifting sound caught his ear.
He blinked. Turned his head.
Mena was at the far end of the room, dressing.
Juno's half-open eyes sharpened in an instant. His body didn't move—but a strand of shadow curled lazily up the wall like smoke, reacting to his mild irritation.
She was in the middle of pulling on a long tunic, back bare for a moment, clearly unconcerned with privacy. Her movements were casual, graceful, like someone unbothered by being seen.
A flick of Juno's fingers was all it took. The shadows obeyed instantly.
A tall, opaque curtain of dark matter surged up between them with a soft, velvety fsshh, cloaking her from sight.
Juno yawned, voice dry but tinged with warning. "Don't do that again."
From the other side of the shadow, her answer came without hesitation.
"Yes, Master Juno."
That was good enough for him. He sat up, stretching his arms over his head until his joints cracked. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and ran a hand through his dark hair, already a tangled mess.
Only one thought was in his head this morning. It pulsed behind his ribs like a heartbeat.
The sword.
He practically buzzed with anticipation. He could feel it waiting for him—not just any weapon, but his weapon. Forged with his shadow essence. Warden had promised it would be unlike anything he'd ever wielded before.
Juno dressed fast. Pajamas off. Black tunic. Pants tucked into tall boots. Headband tied behind his ears to hold his hair back. He hesitated briefly by the basin of water meant for washing. He hadn't showered.
Whatever. He'd bathe later. After he used the sword. What mattered now was getting to the Dark Tower.
He swung the door open and stepped into the hallway. A few other guests moved around the inn now, but they all quickly made way, avoiding Juno's presence like instinct warned them away. He didn't even notice. Or maybe he did—and liked it.
The streets of Sanctuary were just beginning to stir.
The smell of oil and breakfast bread wafted out of street stalls. Vendors were unlocking carts, clinking metal together. A group of children raced down an alley, their laughter sharp and fast. But Juno ignored it all. He walked fast, long strides across stone roads, a shadow trailing behind him like a blade's echo.
People parted when he passed.
Not because they knew who he was—but because something wrong coiled in the air around him. His presence was like a chill before a storm.
Eventually, the skyline of the city shifted. The buildings grew older. The alleys narrowed. And in the distance, looming like a crooked god, stood the Dark Tower.
Even now, after all this time, Juno's stomach fluttered at the sight of it.
Its walls rose higher than any building nearby—blackened, sharp, and crowned with jagged iron towers that looked more like claws than architecture. Its surface was etched with patterns you could only see if you stared too long… and that you'd regret noticing if you did.
He passed through the wrought iron gates, pushing them open with a creak. The Tower's front lobby still looked like some strange mix between a cathedral and an old-world hotel—polished black floors, a chandelier made from bones (or bone-like metal), and that same cursed receptionist behind the crescent-shaped desk.
She looked up when he passed.
And scowled.
Juno didn't stop. Didn't greet her.
He just walked.
Down the hallway on the right, past the runed vases and the old, creaking grandfather clock, until he came to the pedestal.
And above it, floating silently in the air, the orb.
It shimmered faintly with layered light—white and purple and void-black—like it wasn't just glowing, but peering.
Juno stepped up to it, hand outstretched.
He spoke clearly, with a flick of his wrist. "Floor Three."
The orb pulsed.
The world didn't flash. It bent—just slightly. Like a wave of pressure brushed against the edge of reality. And suddenly, he was no longer in the Tower's lobby.
He stood instead before the familiar place. The place he liked.
The third floor of the Dark Tower.
The fog here was thick, rolling across the uneven stone pathway like a living thing. A castle loomed ahead—brutal in its construction. Massive towers, rust-colored iron fixtures, thick stone slabs that looked like they'd been torn from a mountain and hammered into place. It wasn't clean. It wasn't beautiful.
But it had soul. A sharp, iron-wrought soul.
Juno inhaled the air here like it gave him strength.
He walked up the central path, boots clinking. His heart beat faster with each step. He could almost feel the sword waiting for him.
He reached the great door and knocked, fist loud against the metal.
A familiar voice grumbled from inside.
"Come in."
He pushed it open—and the heat hit him first.
The forge inside glowed like a furnace heart. Molten light spilled across the floor. Metal tools lay scattered across benches. Chains hung from the ceiling like ribs. Runes pulsed gently in the walls like veins under skin.
And in the center stood Warden.
The old blacksmith.
Muscles like knots. Beard like a silver mane. One eye gleamed from beneath his heavy brow. He stood beside a crate draped in black cloth, a hand resting on it as if it were sacred.
"Ahh… Juno," he growled, voice like gravel on stone. "I was expecting you."
Juno's heart nearly skipped.
"You finished it?"
Warden grinned—half cruel, half proud—and pulled back the cloth.
Beneath it lay a weapon that didn't just look dangerous.
It was dangerous.
A katana—sleek, black as the void, with a whisper of violet shimmer in its edge. The blade curved perfectly. The hilt was wrapped in what looked like shadow-dyed leather. And even from here, Juno could feel its weight in the world.
It was awake.
"This," Warden said, "is yours."
Juno stepped forward, and for the first time in a long time—he smiled.
And the shadows smiled with him.